"The Elephant"

"The Elephant Poet"

Click here to listen to Dan Chiasson read this poem. "It is known that one elephant who was rather slow in learning his tricks and had been punished severely by his master's beating, was discovered later that night, alone in his tent, practicing those tricks." —Pliny the Elder, Natural History, Book III

What we saw on festival day: play infantrieswith real spears, real veins, a real soldierpulled across the festival grounds trailing bloodthe way a paintbrush is pulled across a canvas;lesser mischief, on the periphery: my friend sawa man gouge out an elephant's eyes with a shovel,and the elephant cried Oh, I am Murdered!the way we do—wordless, comical, in choirs of kazoos:

was that poetry? Or is poetry picking a pretty word,say, "charred" instead of "burned"—as in "charred in a fire"? What happens is so raw,all on its own; it hurts; words should perhapsprotect us from what happens.Perhaps words should be a shield, rather thana mirror; and maybe poems should bean ornamented shield, like the ones

gods made for their favorite soldiers,sons and lovers. Poems should belike people's faces by firelight:a little true, for verification's sake,but primarily beautiful. Or likepomegranates: hard to open at firstbut, when you get them open, full of sweet granulesof meaning. Once, when I was bathed in wine

as part of a military victory parade,I was purple for a month—I liked the looks of me that way,like a giant pomegranate seed!That's what a poem should be:recognizable reality, but dyed,a sign that someone here felt joy,someone had release from pain,

one minute they lived they felt no pain,the war was over, killing was overand they were not killed, not maimed.I liked myself that way. I rememberas a boy, after she had done her obsequiesto the moon, down at the riverbank,my mother put me to bed and whispered,"Frederick"—for that is my name—"Frederick,

you saved my life; mommy wanted to diebefore she felt you stir inside her."It made me feel wonderful. Thereafter,I never felt anything otherthan completely central to her life—what a gift that was. I suppose I understandmy future years in light of our intensebond, my hours waiting for her outside

the dispatcher's office, the time shedated a guy with a criminal recordand soon she found out why—I held herthat time, that time she was the calfand I the mommy. She was a kind of guitarto learn forgiveness on, its harmoniesand, yes, even its bungled chords.And I learned to pity the powerful—

my trainer, forcing me to puff a cigarettewas himself forced, by powersfar greater than he, to force me;so I did it, though my lungs hurt,though my lungs felt sandpapered after.I almost wrote "sad-papered" there; isn't it weirdthe way the mind works, becauseas I fill this paper up with words

I do feel sad, thinking of him lightingthat cigarette, placing it between my lips,the wild applause, our strangeintimacy, and my relief—my god,I thought I might swallowthat fire and become fire. Let me tell youabout my sister, Sarah, and a customthat's long since been lost: Sarah

was hired to be a lying-in girlby the Bridgeport circus. This was beforethe war—or rather, between them.The ringmaster, not yet famous, inventeda new high-wire act: a large bullwould carry a petite cow acrossthe wire, holding her in a bonnethung upon his trunk, the cow lying

in a pile of down blankets, moaning.The crowd was stunned: neverhad they seen an elephant carryanother elephant across the sky,across the almost invisible, single threadof twine. Once the bull crossedand backed down the ladder, though—surprise! From the bonnet, a pair of calves

appear and sport around the ring!"Lying-in Sarah" made the circus rich.The ultimate fate of that circus need nothere be discussed: that fire wasa tragedy, just let me say; and say also,it was not mother's fault. Sarah'smemorabilia are strewn all overmy apartment; some day I'll frame it all;

some day the world will knowher name, and perhaps associate mewith her, in some small way. I am awarethat in certain uncivilized places,where men grunt at one anotherand know not speech, know not poetryor any other art that ennobles us,elephants still are hunted for their tusks;

myself, I had my own removed as soonas I had the money, and hiredan artisan to carve from them my life's story—there is an icon of the moon; a rivericon; three figures together, representingSarah, my mother and me; a flagto show my love of country ...but I've gone on too long. And plus,

the stuff people accumulate and say"This was my life"—it isn't just boring,it's also vaguely creepy, even if it wasonce part of their bodies. Is it this waywith poetry? I hope not, since all day longI write my poetry, my "sad paper."Let others say if I'm bronze or not, sayif this Frederick be a poet or a scribbler.